Harleen Quinzel
by Yautja's Blooded Pet
Summary: From the corpse of the harlequin, she pulled herself from its ashes in a moment of triumph. She left behind the one thing that drove her will forward. She left behind the one thing that she had to cling to. She finally left behind the one man who would never really love her the way she needed. And this was her victory against herself...


Hello everyone! Just a little one-shot to show a few of the more complex dynamics that make up one Harleen Harley Quinzel. If anyone saw the episode "Mad Love," you'll know there are a few more intricacies that make up our beloved harlequin. Enjoy my little bit of angst here. I might be willing to provide a few more chapters if people find the idea intriguing.

Anyway! Enjoy!

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Her mask lifted, peeled from her eyes so that she may stare at the person beneath the surface.

What she saw was artificial.

The powder dusting her cheeks, the crimson staining her mouth. The carefully painted eyeliner and mascara... All made up nice and pretty. For him.

Soggy tissues grated across everything the jester was, bleeding lines of black and red dripping down a darkening face. She didn't bother to wipe the alabaster tears trailing to the tip of her nose, no; she simply stared at her reflection.

Searching.

For the real face hidden beneath the façade.

She stood, hand lifting to her chest, pulling at the top of her tell-tale suit. The zipper screeched and groaned, tearing the seam clean in two. Black and red separated slowly, fragile luminescent skin peeking through the gap. Down the ravine split and grew, the black and red begrudgingly giving up inch by inch of unprotected pale flesh.

Thin, yet strong collarbones.

The valley of bountiful breasts.

The gentle, yet muscled slope of her stomach.

Harley Quinn was devoted, admired, powerful. Her happiness was infectuous and her smile, contagious. Harley Quinn was confident and self-assured! Harley Quinn used to be everything that Doctor Quinzel wasn't.

And yet, from the harlequin she emerged. Fragile, lonely, needy Harleen. She fled from the toxic shroud that was the trapped, love-sick fool. The fool that Joker used.

She pulled her arms from sleeves he never touched. Her chest from a bodice he never embraced. The swell of her hips from fabric that he never caressed. Well. Caress and mean it, anyway. It fell, the color pooling at her feet. Red and black. Blood and death. She thought once, that he would appreciate her choice.

Reaching for the sky, she tore off all that was left of Harley Quinn. The delicate Jester's cap jingled, beckoning to her. "_You need me!"_ It hit the floor screaming, protesting. And then falling into silence.

She was blonde. For now, anyway. Blond this bright wasn't her natural color, but as people said, blondes had more fun. Right? It certainly didn't seem to matter to the one person she looked up to the most.

He never ran his fingers through her hair or cared when she carefully pinned the tresses up. He threw Harley a bone and turned his back on her when it suited him.

Something within the girl stirred, memories of the gleeful kiss he blew her way at Batman's mock trial. The flowers he brought her, hoping to pacify her anger. His smile when he would check up on her before watching her crash to the ground into unconsciousness.

But she also remembered when he ratted her out for easier conditions in Arkham. She remembered when he left her at the Asylum, and Batman of all people; BATMAN sprung her out. She remembered the swift kick she used to knock him out of the way to get to her best friend, Ivy. She remembered the look on his face when he realized her displeasure, the anxiety when he knew that her hammer was coming his way.

In that, a part of her thought he cared that he upset her. But no, she realized long ago that fear of displeasure meant that he'd have to come up with a way to pacify the woman once she was through beating him with the nearest available weapon. The Joker was her angel...and her demon. And perhaps, she didn't see the part of him that was an angel anymore.

The woman turned away from her reflection, careful barefoot steps tiptoeing around broken glass to an unsealed package.

Some people said that Harley wasn't smart. That she was ditzy. On the contrary, the girl had a Masters, over half-way to her PHD in Criminal Psychology with a focus on psychomania. Sure, she made mistakes and perhaps didn't always say the most brilliant things. She let loose a gag here and a blunder there, but her ideas actually worked! For the most part. Every now and then she tripped up...but that was Harley. Now... Now she was Harleen.

And Harleen didn't need to be anything other than Harleen.

She slid on simple things. Pants. Boots. Sweetheart shirt and a corset for kicks. All custom courtesy of Lexcorp. Bulletproof. Knifeproof. Jokerproof. Her own color, a vivid and bright red covered her hips and wrapped under her bust. Brighter red than the shadowed garb she wore for Joker. Brighter red that wasn't particularly good for hiding bloodstains. Not that it mattered anymore.

White biker gloves and white form fitting boots slid on like silk. Red pants and an undercorset offered her bust to the sky, covered daintily by a low dipping neckline. Ivy would approve. Harleen had plenty of appeal, but simply too little confidence to play it up. Now, perhaps Harleen owed Harley a few brownie points. Nothing boosted a girl's confidence like bank robbing and facing down Superheroes.

Harley used to wear pigtails and had fluffy bangs, acting like a spoiled child. The general attitude of that façade had a great entertainment value, especially when she almost wrecked Batman's car. That childish part of her, though... she'd have to leave that behind. Dextrous fingers slid through her hair, layering and twisting the strands together. A nice french braid would suit her well, at least until she could get her hands on some of Ivy's concoctions and figure out something new from there.

Finishing, Harleen stretched and twisted in the mirror... getting used to her own skin. She had all the skill of an acrobat with the strength of a lion, hardened and enchanced with her best friend's special anti-toxin. She was strong. She was confident. She was... dangerous. And she didn't need to be Harley to fire the .500 Magnum that she was strapping to her left leg. She didn't need to be Harley to weild a long, double edged hammer that a grown man would strain to lift. She didn't need to be Harley Quinn to fire a bazooka into an enemy at point blank range and walk away from it afterwards.

Her last duffel bag dropped from the window into the back of a stolen truck. She turned and stared pensively at bells shining in the low light. Once upon a time, Harley Quinn would gather up her costume and in tears, place it in a bag for safekeeping. Just in case. Once she would have thought, "Maybe he'll come back" or "I'll want this for memories." But Harley Quinn wasn't Harleen and Harleen did the only thing she knew would save her from wearing those damned ruffles ever again.

A jester decorated zippo lighter was thrown into the darkness, and out of the chaos came light. Brilliant flames greedily licked and consumed the blackness that was Harley Quinn's life, eating everything until there was no return. Photographs, old clothes, little gags and suprises...everything torched. Her bridges were literally burning... and Harleen took to the window.

Like a cat, she landed safely on her feet. It didn't matter that she jumped from four stories up. It didn't matter that she had nowhere to go. It didn't matter that the girl had to leave Gotham. It didn't matter that there was a nation-wide bolo out for her arrest. Harleen was strong. Harleen was confident. Harleen was un-fucking-stoppable.

And Mister J. better not forget.

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I write in bursts. Most people hate that. Little phrases and images get locked inside my head and I have to pen them out. Sometimes, sadly- those images get lost over time. I am by no means, a writer. I like to think myself as more of a poet. Things come and things go... I don't really sit in front of the computer forcing myself to write. In fact, when I do..whatever comes out tends to suck. This is sad, but true. I'm sure my followers want to murder me..or at least do icky things with my entrails.

Anyway. I can write in this format, so long as I stew on it. Connected or unconnected one-shots.. something that I can leave alone and be happy with or add more and think, "Its okay..." Anyway. :3 We'll see how things go. Let me know if there is any interest.


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